Squatters' Rights
by LadyDivine91
Summary: Chaos ensues at their daughter's Christmas pageant when some unexpected visitors hijack a very important prop. Klaine. Kurt H. Blaine A.


_**Notes:**_

_**Written for the Klaine Advent prompts emergency, ground, hiccup, interrupt, nest, and overwhelm, and the Glee Potluck Big Bang Prompt 'Christmas Trees'.**_

"Ku-rt … oh Ku-rt," Blaine sings in a nervous falsetto. "I need to talk to you, Kurt."

"Yes?" Kurt snaps, too overwhelmed this close to curtain to handle anything that might go hand-in-hand with that unsettling voice.

"We might have a problem."

"What?" Kurt storms a step towards his husband who leaps three steps back in response, concerned suddenly for life and limb. "What _problem_!? It's fifteen minutes to show time! Don't talk to me about _problems_!"

"O…okay," Blaine says, splaying his hands in a conciliatory gesture, "then let's call it a hiccup?"

"No, a hiccup is a safety-gated synonym for _problem_ and I refuse to accept that there are any _problems_."

"And yet, we still have one."

Kurt sighs, throwing a hand to his forehead to shield his already blooming headache from whatever stupidity this is, and ends up smacking himself with his clipboard. "_Fine_!" he groans, rubbing the sore spot. "What is it!?"

"Look up there." Blaine reaches out to take his husband's shoulder and redirect his attention, but after considering the possibility of getting his hand bitten off, he motions with his chin instead.

"Up _where_?"

"Up … up there. In the Christmas tree. And … uh … tell me I don't see what I think I see."

"What? Is Mrs. Popson complaining that the ornaments are _unbalanced_ again? Are we going to have to re-Feng shui the lights to better complement her third graders' angel piglets?" Kurt allows himself a snicker as he follows Blaine's instructions and gazes up. Eight dozen ridiculous things have happened so far and their little pageant has yet to even open. That's probably all this is. Something ridiculous – a minor inconvenience blown way out of proportion.

At least, that's what it had better be.

But as he peers through the branches of their picturesque twelve-foot Fraser fir, he realizes no. This isn't a little thing. It's a rather large thing. So large, he wonders how come he didn't manage to notice it before now.

"Oh … shit," he mutters.

"Yeah," Blaine agrees. "That's what I said."

"This!" Kurt hisses, jabbing a finger upward. "This is why I told you I wanted an _artificial tree_ for the Christmas pageant! Where did we get this thing anyway?"

"It was donated, Kurt! By Father Bruno at St. Adalbert's Parish. As a show of support for out LGBT inclusive program! He went out to the woods and cut it down himself!"

"Right!" Kurt folds his arms over his chest, expression pinched sarcastically. "He probably planned this! Did it on purpose to sabotage our pageant! You can't trust the Catholics, Blaine! Don't I always say that!?"

"No!" Blaine pulls a face. "I have never heard you say that!"

"Well, you can't," Kurt sniffs. "And whether I said it or not, it's generally implied."

"I don't think he did this on purpose."

"Really!? Then let me ask you this - during the time it took the good father to cut this tree down and drag it over here, he never once noticed there was not one, not two, but _three_ nests inside!?"

"I guess not! But neither did y-we," Blaine corrects, his life flashing before his eyes when he almost implicates his husband in being at fault. "We got the tree last minute. I guess they slipped through the cracks."

"Obviously." Kurt sighs. He closes his eyes and drops his head, searching for an answer in the dark behind his lids.

_Five minutes_.

By now, they only have five minutes left until show time. He can hear the children lining up with their teachers backstage while he and his husband argue. But they need to stop arguing and come up with a solution.

And _fast_.

He takes a deep breath in and exhales out, the inklings of a plan forming in his head.

"It's okay," he says, reassuring himself more than anyone. "It's going to be okay. They haven't let the parents in yet. They're still in line outside. We can fix this. We can still fix this." Kurt's eyes pop open. "Sam's here, right?"

"Yeah. Yeah!" Blaine exclaims, the inclusion of their friend in this scenario of some bizarre comfort to him. "He's doing final checks on the lighting! Up in the catwalk!"

"Great," Kurt says, over-enunciating consonants through locked teeth. "Can you go get him please?"

"Yes! Yes, I can! Sam! _Sam_!" Blaine bellows before he runs off behind the curtain. Kurt flinches, the headache simmering behind his eyes threatening to become a full-blown migraine. He considers informing his husband that _he_ could have yelled just as easily, but quicker than quick, Blaine returns with Sam in tow, pointing animatedly at the tree, running his mouth a mile a minute. Sam listens, nodding and smiling, telling Blaine it'll be okay every time Blaine stops to take a breath – which isn't often. But a foot away from the tree Sam gets a better glimpse. He slows down. His smile falls. And to Kurt's dismay, he shakes his head.

But Kurt adamantly objects to hearing anything that so much as stinks of bad news, so before Sam can say a word, he jumps the gun: "So, you can move them right? Just … shimmy up there and get them down?"

"Uh … no. I can't."

"Yes, you can," Kurt counters, teeth clenched so hard they're about to pop from his skull. "Skitter your way up there and pluck them out. It can't be too difficult."

"I'm sorry, Kurt …"

"We're not going to hurt them," Kurt interjects as if that might be the big hold up. "We're going to relocate them."

"Kurt …"

"There's a cat carrier in the fifth grade room," Kurt continues desperately. "We'll toss them in there for the time being and then …"

"Kurt!" Sam barks, which he never does, so Kurt knows the impending answer truly is _no_. "We can't move them."

"And _why_ can't we?"

"Because those aren't just _any_ birds." The three men look up at the exact moment nine fluffy bird faces peek over the edges of their nests and look down, probably wondering what all the commotion below is about. "Those are loggerhead shrikes."

Kurt and Blaine both look at their friend with confusion on their faces.

"How do you know _that_?" Blaine asks.

"I happen to be an Eagle Scout. And an active member of the Audubon Society."

"I didn't know that!" Blaine pats his proud friend on the back. "Good for you, man!"

"Thank you," Sam replies a la his favorite Elvis-impersonation. "Thank you very much."

Kurt throws his arms up in frustration at the unexpected arrival of the mutual admiration society. "Okay! Great! They're loggerhead shrikes! So?"

"Loggerhead shrikes are threatened. That means they're protected. We can't move them ourselves. We might not be able to move them at all without taking the tree with them."

Kurt's eyes bug. "We can't … we can't … the tree!? Oh great! This keeps getting better and better!"

"Kurt, relax." Blaine takes the risk and puts his hands on Kurt's shoulder. He tries to massage them, but they're hard as rocks. "It's okay. We can still sort this out."

"And how do you suggest we do that!? Huh!? Our Christmas pageant, which your daughter is starring in _by the way_, and is supposed to start in …" Kurt spins around in search of a clock. When he can't see the one on the far wall, ironical for the tree, he fishes his cell phone out of his pocket and checks the screen. His eyes bug out farther "… _two minutes_! has been hijacked by _birds_!"

"Look. They've been chill so far. Maybe we can have the pageant with them there and move them after. Problem solved."

"You're right," Kurt agrees optimistically, seeing how, with no time to spare, this could be a feasible option. "We'll let them stay! Problem solved! I mean, what's a few birds? It doesn't look like they can even fly yet. And they're cute! They'll add realism. They won't be any trouble."

"Not exactly," Sam says, and Kurt as never wanted to punch him in the face so hard in his life. "There may be a whole other _bigger_ problem."

"And that is?"

"Those are the babies. Juveniles, specifically. I don't see any moms. Or dads for that matter."

"I know I'm going to regret asking this," Kurt moans, resigned to whatever fate Sam's knowledge is about to bestow upon them, "but … that's a problem _why_?"

"Because loggerhead shrikes are protective. Being separated from their chicks, the parents will get aggressive. Also, if the babies don't know where their parents are and they get nervous …" A series of jarring screeches interrupt Sam's explanation. Kurt glares up at the birds, mouths open wide, cawing loudly into the air. Sam points up. "They'll do that."

"Great!" Kurt yelps, at the end of his rope. "So we have potentially agro birds loose in the theater, baby birds that spontaneously scream bloody murder, and a play set to start in _half-a-minute_, which we may have to postpone indefinitely in case we need to call animal control - do I have that right?"

"Basically, yes."

"Well, skippidy do! Is there anything else!? Anything at all you've forgotten to tell me!? Because what else could _possibly go wrong_!?"

The doors at the back of the auditorium fly open and Kurt blanches, knowing that right then and there, his question is about to be answered.

"Kurt! Blaine! Come quick! It's an _emergency_!"

"What? What, what, what is it now!?"

"Insane birds are dive bombing parents in line outside! Three people have already been pecked! Everyone is scattering! It's like an Alfred Hitchcock movie!"

With the doors thrown open, Kurt can hear it – the panicked yells of parents outside, banging on the doors, begging to be let in. Above that, the shrieking of the birds searching for their babies echo through the halls, their screams so high-pitched and piercing, they make their way through the thick stone walls and heavy metal doors. Hearing their parents' cries, the baby birds respond, frantically flapping their wings in an effort to take flight themselves and reach them.

Bitterly Kurt thinks all of his problems might be solved if they give it a go, plummet to the ground, and break their little birdie necks.

How un-festive of him.

Blaine looks sympathetically at his done-in husband. "Do you want me to go outside and handle this one alone?"

"No." Kurt straightens his back, squares his shoulders, hands his clipboard over to Sam, and makes for the stairs to the stage, head held high like a gladiator going off to fight an unwinnable war. "I'll go. Sam? Tell the teachers … there's been a bit of a delay."

"Right-y o, chief," Sam says, leaving the stage with a solemn salute.

"And Blaine?"

"Yes?" Blaine says, falling in behind his husband, unwilling to let him walk off into the bird battle alone.

"Do me a favor?"

"Anything."

"The next time I ask what could possibly go wrong - gag me."

"Don't say that …" Blaine smirks, preparing to die on the hill of bringing a smile back to his husband's face. "Between that and all this bird talk, I can't wait to get you home."


End file.
